The Story Teller
by freakazoidgirl
Summary: Every night, he'd come to her, and every night she'd tell him bits of her past, until one day she lay broken against a closet wall, blood tainting her skin. Every night, she'd tell him of a girl who lived a horrible life until one day...the girl died.


_**The Story Teller**_

Every night, at the tick of dusk, he'd grab his walking cane, pointed at the tip so sharp it might as well been a sword or dagger. His eyesight poor but when he passed by a blur he still knew that his superior intellect suppressed those of the race that surrounded him; his tailored ivory suit stood out like a sunflower in winter as he walked down the dirt path, his hands hidden beneath a pair of ebony leather gloves, his feet shielded from the brisk night by a pair of leather pointed boots. The air was fresh and cold, just below freezing, the ground was white with snow, and the sky was painted black with grey swirls that resembled clouds. Firmly placing a pair of circular glasses upon the tip of his long pointed nose, his mouth was carved in a smug frown.

Every night, he'd visit the same tavern, he'd walk in, the music would stop temporarily, his eyebrows would knit together, his eyes scanning across the room like a hawk, until one would look away and the music would begin again. He'd order gin, like every night, he'd gulp down the shot, place a crisp bill upon the wooden counter, he wouldn't dare indulged himself in the presence of humans for more than ten minutes, if possible. He'd slide away from the bar like a snake, zipping past anyone that presented themselves in his way, he'd wander in the back of the building, past the few liquored up men, he'd enter a room, or more of another building it would seem, where woman in tight corsets roamed, many standing behind men as they played poker against one another, fighting for a prize that would only last the night.

Every night, he'd pass the men and their floozy's by, instead he climbed up a swirl like staircase, where music filled; it was more of a simple resting area and then lead on to be a long hallway with doors for miles. A young woman caught his eye, she met his glaze, not terrified of his appearance as many others were, she was less than twenty it seemed, her deep auburn hair cascaded down her backside in soft ripples, her dark green eyes held lust, her plump lips pursed in a smirk, round breast perked out from her tight corset. Sauntering over to him, she placed a soft gloved hand upon his rough shoulder, gripping his ascot she pulled him closer to her as they wandered down the long hallway…

Every night he pleasured himself with every harlot he could find, willing or not, his skin was as cold as the snow that lay outside but his body still commanded a way to relieve himself. By the stroke of eleven he found himself grinding his throbbing member inside a short brunette, she was at a loss of words as tears slipped from her eyes, she oblivious was not a virgin but the pain that shot through her every time he ground himself in and out of her was not replaced with pleasure any time soon. She's experienced rough customers to her body but the pain she felt was like death. With a grunt, he climaxes, collapsing beside her, he pauses, his breathing is low, so low the brunette beside him can barely hear it, after a minute he slowly rises from the bed, collecting his trousers her places a cheap amount of money beside her on the bed. "I'm deducting two cents for the tears, and five for the lack of pleasure." He states, his firm chalk white chest soon concealed under his white poet shirt as he begins to exit.

Every night, he'd leave as soon as his thriving desire had subsided, always around the time between eleven and midnight, never after or before. With his ivory overcoat and cane in hand he walked down the stairs, avoiding eye contact, he wasn't ashamed, no, he was secretly thrilled that he made another female human suffer and cry.

Every night was the same…except tonight…As he walked past the drunken card players and their _prizes _he stepped through another door, this time it led outside, a back exit. Instead of the crisp cold air and quiet night he was met with different individuals…humans.

"Ah!" A young woman cried, her long curly ebony hair was knotted in a elder man's grasp, as he slammed her face into a mud bank over and over again until her face was stained with mud, tears, and blood. "I'm sorry!" she pleaded, her voice high and hoarse from crying. The man silenced her by smashing her face into the bank again, it was clear he wasn't being clemency with her in the least.

"You didn't make any money tonight, that's a fortnight, a fucking fortnight you've wasted my money!" The man screamed.

He watched on in curiosity, normally the female human's revolted him, with their greedy spending on clothing and jewelry which was unneeded, their toxic scent of perfume, and smug proud expressions plastered to their faces, they were just as bad as the male humans. But…this one…she knew pain, she didn't seem greedy, but the way the man talked about her was beginning to put doubt in his mind.

"I'm sorry!" She pleaded again; blood began to gush from her nose and mouth.

"You…you worthless piece of shit, you refuse to make any money, the men are always complaining about you…how you refuse to pleasure them, spit at them, yell…I should've just given you away to the first bloke who dropped by!" The man hollered, screeching in the woman's mud and tear stained face.

"I'm sorry!" It was clear her pleas went unnoticed.

Curiosity was at its peak in his mind now, now…he understood, a firm frown crowned onto his features replacing his emotionless state, pulled a crisp bill from his trousers, and held it above his head as he yelled out to the man and woman. "One dollar," The yelling and sobbing seemed to pass, as both stared off at the man before them, he was a famous one, he was, not for his wealth but for his appearance, it came as both a surprise to them both as they stared at him in sere awe. "What?" The man said, slightly caught off guard, "She is a harlot is she not? One dollar," He said again, his voice empty of emotion.

"Don't waste your money; she won't do nothin' for anybody, 'specially not for some spawn of the devil!" The man spat.

"One dollar." He said again firmly.

The elder man before him, gazed between the money and the woman he held in his grasp, then back to the money, shoving her forward into his grasp he stole the money from his palm and dashed back into the parlor where the men were engaging in cards. The woman before him began to shake, she moved from his grasp and stood before him, head held down, firmly, with tears and blood gushing from her face she said, "I refused to become one of those whores…" He stared at her; it was clear now…fresh meat. "I don't expect you to."

She gazed up at him, her sparkling chocolate brown eyes glossy with tears, her face tainted a dark brown from the mud but she appeared to be a rather peachy colored girl, her apparel was a tight midnight blue corset with white-now stained brown- trimming and matching ankle short skirt with the thighs cut open to reveal her milky legs wrapped in fishnets. "What…" She whispered perplexed. "You have suffered a lot in your lifetime so far have you not?" He asked, she gazed down for a second, "Yes…" was her response. "And you continue to suffer am I right?"

"Yes…"

"You are not like the other women then I take it?"

"What?"

"You know pain, you feel it, you're not afraid to show it in the most humiliating way, you deserve to show your pain in tears, others do not." She was at a loss of words, "What is your name?" he asked, she stared at the ground, her voice lost.

"Fiona…"

Ushering her forward he slipped back inside, her trailing behind, it was clear she was weak and injured, as she limped up the stairs, gazes followed; an almost animal like growl filled the room as all eyes turned towards him, standing at the top of the stairs. He turned his head the other way and began to descend down the hallway. Fiona limped behind as blood from a slice on her thigh dripped down her legs like rain on glass; she stumbled twice, the man, though held no emotion besides a scowl on his face was drowning in anger, it was clear through his aggressive footsteps. It was clear he wasn't looking for an audience. Deciding upon a random door he flung open the door to find a couple in a heated session, suppressing the growl rising in his throat, he stepped into the room and with a lung forward gripped the a clomp of the man atop of a younger harlot and flung him outside with one stroke of his wrist, the woman, obliviously shocked by the surprise attack attempted plead with him but as she felt his cold fingers entwine with her golden locks and her body fly through the air only to impact with the wall outside she knew it was useless.

"Come," He ordered to Fiona, her eyes wide as she looked between him and the couple lying unconscious on the hardwood behind her, then back again, she hurriedly rushed inside the room.

The atmosphere that lingers inside the room was most disgusting and negative. The same could very well be said about the man that had just claimed it for himself and his _guest_. The room itself smelled of sex, sweat, and tobacco all mixed into one toxic smell. Fiona, herself was positively a wreck, she hadn't a clue what this man was going to do to her, her body was strained and restless, she could barely hold herself up let alone defend herself against a lustful man, it didn't mean she wouldn't attempt to keep herself holy with all her remaining will power though. "Sit," He ordered, she stared at him, her hands shaky, and with a sigh he gripped the bed sheet and flung it out of the room before slamming the door.

"Not on the bed, it likely holds remaining traces…" He trailed off.

"Uh…huh," She whispered back as she backed herself into a corner and slid down the wall, her mind in pure chaos inside her head as her mind became plagued with gruesome, horrid images of what was surely to come.

"Fiona…" her name lingered on his tongue.

Fiona gazed upwards, not entirely making eye contact. "Well…?" He asked, leaving her at a standstill. She was too paralyzed in her own fear that had begun plainly in her own mind to answer, "Well…?" He repeated, motioning with his hands to her as if he wanted her to do something. "Are you going to engage me with your story of tragedy or are you just another common whore?" Her head sprung up at her eyes narrowed, her mouth crooked she spat out her response, "Whore? So I'm a whore am I now?" She stated more than asked as her voice began to rise, "I may appear a common harlot…b-but that makes me better than lowlife scum such as you---you ignorant narcissistic bastard!"

A smirk flew onto his features as he leaned against the wall, "Spitfire…" He said just above a whisper. "What?" She spat, "Spitfire, quite the hotheaded one aren't we?" He said as he pushed his glasses back into place. "Bloke little bastard," Fiona piped up, not welcoming the teasing.

"Quite fond of using curses to make your enemy appear weak aren't you? It's a shame; this wasn't exactly the entertainment I was looking forward to, but just as enjoyable." Fiona was ready to shove a stake through his cold black heart.

"Well," He began again.

"Well what?"

"Are you just going to converse in common buffoonery…or are shall we partake in the evening I was expecting?"

"Expecting exactly what?" She bit back.

"Everyone has a story, some people have forms of complication or tragedy that made their life a living hell or left a hole in their heart, I'm curious, most have that 'hole' replaced, and often for women it's shopping that fills that 'hole'. Yet…you don't appear to be the kind of woman to partake in such 'mending' of the 'hole'."

"…Go on…"

"I'm curious…what is your story, your tragedy, what made you whole again…?" She peered at him, searching his eyes, was he serious? If he was…for what reason; why would a complete stranger want to know her life story?

"That doesn't concern you…"

"True…but, I am in the mood for some form of entertainment, you could tell me a story…or…" He trailed off as he dropped his overcoat to the floor and slickly slid the door an inch open, "I could find some disgusting intoxicated buffoons and sell you to the highest bidder…your choice." He could smell her fear, with a loud screech, her fate was sealed. "No!" A wicked grin spread to his ears, "Very well." He closed the door and with a click, locked it, sealing them inside from the outside world that continued to stir.

He positioned himself once more against the wall as he waited for her to begin. With an intake of air she slowly began. "There…once was a young girl, she had three older, beautiful sisters and a gorgeous mother named Juliana." She took in another breath of air, "Her father wasn't around much, she never knew what exactly her father did for money, whatever it was, and it must have paid lavish amounts." Fiona's attention turned to the floor, already barely into the story and she was beginning to feel faint and uncomfortable. "As she grew, she noticed, her father spent fewer and fewer hours at home, it felt more like minutes or seconds that she was in his presence. When it came time for her oldest sister to marry, her father seemed to spend more hours at home, but all of his time was preoccupied in finding her sister a rich, reliable husband." She paused; the memories seemed to shoot arrows through her heart.

"Go on…" He gestured.

"…When he found a subtle rich husband, they wed quickly, a year passed…her father became distant again shortly after the wedding…her sister came to visit regularly, never bringing her spouse though…then one day, she came home in tears. Her husband was dead, died from a broken spine caused by a buck from his own horse as it were."

"When it came time for the funeral, father seemed slightly enraged, she couldn't quite place why, and she guessed it had something to do with the fact that her husband didn't leave her any of his money. A week after the wedding her sister seemed to disappear during random hours of night…then one night she never came home…the same occurred for her other sister Delia, only her suitor had decided to back out of the wedding at the last minute…then one night after another she began to disappear and return in the morning more than slightly flustered. Her father's anger never creased."

He closed his eyes, processing everything she said, "Continue," he commanded, sighing she obligated his command. "When she was twelve her mother grew deathly ill, too weak to eat she slowly passed away weeks after the symptoms began to occur." His eyes shot open, sharp as ever. She was about to continue but she seemed terribly choked up, fresh tears were crystallizing in her already red puffy eyes. Picking up his overcoat he pulled out a hankie from his breast pocket and stepped over to her as she rubbed her swollen eyes with the back of her hand. Wordlessly he handed her the hankie and slipped a bill between her fingers before departing out the door.

Every night since, he went to the tavern like usual, but before ordering a shot of gin he'd slip into the brothel and hunt down the owner, _reserving _his _prize_ for the night seeing as the owner had no objection to reserving such a harlot as Fiona. After a shot or two of gin he'd venture into the brothel and find a _toy _for the night, if not two or more_ toys_, and then, when his need was momentarily vanished he'd search for his _prize_. Each night, close to midnight she'd tell him bits more of her story, never finishing, even when the main character had reached adulthood, for her story was far from over. Every night, he'd hand her a new hankie, for her story was something out of Shakespeare's workmanship, tragic, and a new amount of money, each night it arose to a new amount, but still managed to seem about the same amount one would pay a harlot after shagging.

One night…however, she refused to continue the story, too choked up, it was clear, something that only could come from God's will had occurred to her in her past, instead…while he stared at her, aware of her weak, pitiful state with his dark eyes…they seemed to change to a darker shade as the days past, she began to hum a silent tune under her breath. Out of sere curiosity, he asks her what she's humming. Sere curiosity, nothing else I assure you.

"…It was a song my mother taught me…she would sing it alone, to herself after a family member or friend had passed on, she said it always helped her cope with the loss." Her hushed tone made her appear fragile but serious.

"Sing it." He demanded, though his voice was not rough or held anger, it just appealed to boom, almost echo, around the room. She didn't respond.

"Sing it." He tried again, his voice held hints of rage. With a huff of air, and after silently reassuring herself, the words began to slip off her tongue as if she had always sung it…perhaps, perhaps…she has.

Rest now my friend  
Winter has come again  
My heart shall surely never mend  
Rest now,

Let all sorrow end  
Rest now,  
Yesterday can wait  
Rest now

With blood come tears  
Lay your head  
upon the silken bed  
Rest now…

Close your eyes  
Winter has come  
For your frail undone heart  
Rest now…

Rest now  
Close your eyes  
Lock away your heart  
Winter has come again…  
Rest…rest now  
Until we meet again…

The song flew from her lips to his ears in a depressing melody. He didn't speak through the rest of night that the two were together, but as the hour began to draw closer he drew an extra amount of money from his pocket and slid it into her palm before exiting the room. Fiona was left fighting with herself, trying to decide if she did the right thing to share her mother's song; it was the only thing she had to remind her that she was still there, somewhere, watching and waiting.

One night…he didn't come, and she was left alone…with the owner…she had been doing her part, yes, but the so had the owner, and he became greedy, if he wasn't already, add whisker and a rope and you have a tragedy in the making. He never showed. A day later, at the tock of midnight he arrived, his eyes, strangely, a much lighter shade than when they had met; he searched for her, he couldn't find the owner. Red splatters stained his chalk white hands, he wasn't wearing his gloves which were just bizarre; no one had ever peered at the man and not seen his routine gloves glued to his hands. He appeared slicker tonight, stealthy almost, as he slid around the brothel searching for his _pet_. He closed his eyes, rubbing the area between his eyes, trying to calm his tension as he left his hearing wander adrift, tuning out all over unnecessary noises…he pinpointed some silent sobbing near the back of the brothel, in the closet next to the washroom.

His eyes locked on the closet, as he stormed forward, shoving people dwelling in his way aside until his abruptly stopped in front of the closet, gentle, as not to frighten the likely already terrified person inside cowering. "Pet," he spoke, his words light but terrifying. A flush woman, tied down, in nothing but her britches, was huddled in the back corner of the closet, her hair tangled and matted, bruises lined her body, and her silent sobs became wretched. With a sigh he enclosed himself inside the tight closet. He pulled out a small dagger from his trench coat, if her head hadn't been buried in her hands, she might have shrieked. Her ankles were tied together, tearing into her flesh, her wrists appeared to be once tied behind her back but with much thrashing he guessed she wriggled out of the hold behind her but the bleeding red torn flesh spoke that it was a hassle and with her freedom came her pain.

He slipped the cold metal underneath the knot and slowly began to dig into the rope. The cold against her bare feet awoke Fiona to the presence of another; sere panic took over until she spotted his pale skin and ruby eyes, "Pet," he repeated, she drew up some lost courage and with a hoarse whisper replied, "Yes…?" He remained silent for a full minute until the rope broke and her ankles lay free.

"Tell me…" he began again.

"Yes…?"

"Whatever happened to the young girl…how'd she end up in her hell?"

Fiona stared off, lost in her own mind, it was clear she had suffered a great ordeal the past night, but it seems she managed to keep her purity at the price…she would surely be haunted in her dreams of the fateful night. But…if she happened, one thing is clear…the nightmares would surely be ten times as painful and frightening, if she hadn't she would never be the same. "At sixteen, her father announced her engagement to a British soldier…"

"A red coat," He said bluntly.

"…Yes, it was a shock to her, one day she had been playing aimlessly, the next she was caught up in arranged marriage."

"His name was Raphael, tall, strong, chestnut hair, topaz eyes with flickers of green…he was gorgeous…but…He was snobbish, crude, a typical man of wealth that her father always _admired_."

"She hated him,"

"Yes…"

"What happened to him?"

"He died in fire, by then they were still only engaged, so she received nothing from him, which fumigated her father to no end. One night…after supper, her father confronted her, pinning her against the wall, he threatened her, telling her that if she refused to work for him he'd kill her…"

"So…she went to work for him, that's when she learned where her sisters had been disappearing to in the middle of night, and why they never returned, they were forced to work for him…at a brothel…that's when she learned that even with family close in her hell, no one could be trusted. Her sisters forgot about her, their only importance was freedom, so one night they escaped, leaving her behind like she was just another common whore."

The closet remained silent for the rest of the night, he stayed longer this time, nearly two hours alone in the closet with her as her tears slipped down and her wounds continued to bleed. As the clock outside chimed at the strike of two A.M. he arose from his hunched position and pulled a small white hankie from his trench coat, tainted with splatters of dried blood…inside the hankie held something hard and cool like winter snow upon a bare body, placing it firmly inside her hand he slowly strode out of the closet. She whipped away a few tears before unfolding the hankie to reveal a small dagger, engraved in the handle was wise words of wisdom that shot fear up her spine and her breath caught in her throat. _"Remember pet, keep your friends close, but your enemies closer"_.

Was he a friend? Could he be trusted…was he friend or foe? Her thoughts skyrocketed through her mind at such a fast pace she began to feel faint. She opened the closet door, staring into the bar, she decided then that he was neither friend…nor foe as she watched his pale body, platinum/white hair, and ruby red eyes retreat outside into the damp world that lay ahead. He was just there, always there. No other way to describe him…an angel waiting _there_, a devil waiting _there_…in her hell.

Days past…he came every night, not bothering to _reserve _his pet, he knew where she'd be hiding, each night for a full month he appeared, but one night after a new month began he'd never show, at first, when he never appeared she'd just receive a beating for her _greedy_ acts given by her intoxicated father/owner of the brothel, then when she tried to defend herself the second time with the dagger, her world went black…He arrived late the night afterwards, red splatters stained his chin and fingers, he marched into the brothel avoiding the gazes and stares of those around, he rushed into the closet, the stench of blood and death fresh in the air.

Fiona had her back pressed against the wall of the closet, blood stained her cheeks, lips, forearms, and most of her upper torso, her eyes half open. Her breathing was barely under a whooping cough, and her movements were scarce; he closed the door slowly behind him and hunched over in front of her, his cane and coat forgotten as they lay sprawled upon the cool ground. He leaned his forehead against hers, running a hand across her face, collecting the blood along his hands. "Tell me…" He whispered to her, her eyes lids fluttered lightly, "What happened to the girl who lived in sorrow after she began to live her in hell?" Fiona cracked a half smile as she whispered back to him as her breathing began to crease.

"S-She…d-died…"

He removed his head from hers as her eyes began to close and her body stop all moving, her chest slowly began to stop rising and then in one swift motion her soul was lifted up into the heavens as her cold body remained motionless with her angel/devil licking the last of her blood off his hands. He chuckled lightly to himself as he stood and collected his things… "Silly girl…" He sauntered out of the closet, a light smile faintly lining his lips as he exited the brothel and then the tavern. Alone, basking in the darkness that surrounded him on the chilly night he began to hum a tune to himself as he descended home for the final night.

Cinderella had lived happily ever after, Snow White, Little Red Riding Hood, everyone, all of them, all of the princesses and princes, the characters of our children's favorite classics…everyone but the story teller and author itself, because in the end…their only just fables and stories, no one ever lives their happily ever after without a price.

"Rest now…my pet…"

* * *

A/N: please take note that this takes place obviously before the twenty first century, most likely takes place around the 1700th to 1800th, hence the "red coat" remark, this likely takes place around the time the revolutionary war started, and to clear things up, the main character, the male one: is in fact albino and a vampire, but people only know him as an albino or "demon" in their eyes because of his appearance because they do not realize he is in fact just like them, or _was_. just a guess that that's how albino's were treated before people realized they're just like them. thanks for reading!


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